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The Way Out

Big hands grabbing, pushing, and pulling,
Or hands of perfume and slender bones,
Paralyzing hands of intoxicating sorcery,
Of she wolves and heretical giants
Who hide in the darkest caves in the forest,
Masters of deceit with conniving smiles,
Movers of mountains and steadfast truths,
Reinventing nature and nature’s laws,
Sending rivers upward to their birthplace,
Frolicking in the snows of summer,
As big hands of backward progressions
Pulled him into a maze,
Where hell is a heavenly ghost,
A spirit with black and red wings,
Where truth is a wandering mandate
That plays with the swirling winds,
That floats with the urge of the beholder,
The one lost in the cave,
A believer in the God of the Dead,
The one that sat on the fence
Waiting to be persuaded by the wolf,
To follow her into the darkness,
The land adorned by black rainbows
That follow the tempest’s desiring,
As the darkness is not dark enough,
Where beauty is an ebony dream
And a sorcerer’s delight,
Where the way out is a forgotten dream,
Lost in the maze of the beholder,
The one satisfied with his new environs,
In love with the wolves who led him there,
Who loves the aroma of his new heaven,
The smell of dead violets,
And where the way out is the way back in.
“Who needs a God when pleasure feels so good,”
So sayeth he in love with the wolves.

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